


The Frail

by wordsliketeeth



Series: The Downward Spiral [1]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Biting, Blackmail, Blood and Injury, Creampie, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Fights, Force Bondage, Loss of Virginity, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Obsession, Physical Abuse, Possessive Behavior, Rape, Rough Sex, Sadistic Hanamiya Makoto, Sociopath Hanamiya Makoto, Stalking, Strong Female Characters, Threats, Vaginal Fingering, Yandere Hanamiya Makoto
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 19:59:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18901627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsliketeeth/pseuds/wordsliketeeth
Summary: "You thrashed back and forth, writhing in an attempt to throw Hanamiya off of your back, but he continued clinging to you like a leech thirsty for blood—and it was blood that you would remember as he forced you onto your back, his hair a dark curtain that framed his pale face, red staining porcelain and bearing the promise of future bruises." Hanamiya wants what he can't have and takes what he shouldn't.





	The Frail

The sense of defeat is the worse part.

You know better than to let your mind deviate at a time like this. You know that you're better than this, that you're stronger than the repressive weight above you. You know that you have better reflexes and that you're faster and that you're far more _capable_ but you can't seem to break free from the nails biting into your wrists or the sharp angle of the knee digging in against the space just below your ribcage.

The sense of betrayal comes next. You know that maybe things would be less complicated—perhaps easier to swallow at the very least—if you had had the slightest inkling that the frame of Hanamiya Makoto's mere existence had been forcibly fit into the pieces of the veritable puzzle that delineated the picture of your everyday life for the last several months. But even with your frequent visits and tutoring sessions taking up long hours at Kirisaki Daīchi you hadn't picked up a single clue. You never saw the gleaming jealousy burning brightly behind the deceiving warmth of Hanamiya's eyes when you closed your fingers around the soft familiarity of your ex's hand. You never saw the sharp curve of his lips or the white slash of his smile when he grinned in a way that spelled trouble as he followed you home day after day, his hands buried deep in his pockets and his feet shuffling against the pavement. Never once did you hear him, and only once did you see him, but you never suspected that his juxtaposition meant anything more than that you followed the same trajectory toward your respective homes.

But now you can hear the steady thrum of his heart. You can taste the heat on his breath and smell the lingering fragrance of soap on his skin. You can see him even after you close your eyes to call back some semblance of clarity. But nothing, _nothing_ is worse than how you can _feel_ him.

You had sworn yourself able and wholly self-reliant, capable of anything that the world decided to throw at you. You found comfort in the space of isolation that was your home, large and usually empty for hours, or sometimes days taking into consideration your parents' careers. You taught yourself to accept the presence of others as becoming but not beneficial, therefore, leaving you no necessary need to trust or rely on anyone other than yourself. You knew well enough that you had the ability to succeed on your own, that your hard-won accomplishments were achieved by perseverance and diligence opposed to the charity of society.

So when Hanamiya slipped out from the shadows sleeping in the corner of your bedroom, you couldn't prepare yourself for the shock of surprise that lodged itself in the dark of your throat. After the startled fear melted into something more tangible, something bittersweet that trickled down your esophagus and into your stomach like the warmth of cinnamon and the sour of a bitter apple, you forced your bewilderment into motion.

You moved on autopilot, your emotions the buildings blocks of your movement, your fear forging the framework of each physical attack. You felt like you were walking on static, a candle running away from the light. Your body was quick to react, each blow delivered to Hanamiya working quicker than the thoughts crowding into formulation inside of your head. Yet, somehow, it wasn't enough. Hanamiya was faster, more prepared, and within seconds the belt around his narrow hips became a makeshift bond for your arms as he shoved you to the floor, imbuing you with a sense of helplessness.

You thrashed back and forth, writhing in an attempt to throw Hanamiya off of your back, but he continued clinging to you like a leech thirsty for blood—and it was blood that you would remember as he forced you onto your back, his hair a dark curtain that framed his pale face, red staining porcelain and bearing the promise of future bruises. His lip was split in its center, the once soft pink tinged bright crimson and shining with a union of saliva and vitality. You couldn't tear your eyes away from the spill of red, the damage left by your fist in the shape of rage, an amalgam of protection and hatred facilitated by deep-rooted fear.

Hanamiya's hands shove roughly at your thighs, tugging you headfirst into the crushing weight of the present; but your thoughts are no longer concrete, each passing notion an invitation for something grave, a conciliatory move for the dread crawling inside your veins. You close your eyes, suddenly suffused with the kind of exhaustion that comes from being awake all night. Behind your eyes, the sun doesn't shine and the moon is in shock; there's a circus inside your mind and a sky full of tears. You feel like a skeleton key, peculiar and virtually useless, and you wonder if this is the apocalypse.

You can feel the curve of Hanamiya's knuckles press against your sex. His nails rake the inside of your thigh, then before you can hold your breath, he tears the fabric of your panties away from your skin, leaving you entirely exposed to the oppressive heat of the room. You kick your legs in an attempt to free yourself from the cold hands branding your flesh but there's nothing solid behind the motion, no connection, only the weightlessness of space.

You cry out, the sound that tears past your lips an outburst of fury that masks your anguish as Hanamiya drags the scratch of his tongue up your slit and over your clit. A shiver climbs the staircase of your spine and you suddenly feel sick, repulsion filling your stomach like a balloon expanding with too much helium. One hand pushes at your thigh while the other climbs beneath the hem of your shirt, searching for the fullness of your breasts as his tongue explores the entirety of your sex.

You try to ignore the bite of his fingers as he squeezes your flesh roughly, moaning into the heat that radiates from your sex, wet with saliva and the betrayal of your own body. The reflexive response is enough to color shame across your cheeks as if humiliation is dust upon a brush ghosting your skin.

You can feel your lips part on a breath that you've been holding for so long it aches in your chest, then your mouth is opening for words that don't meet your ears, but they're audible nonetheless because Hanamiya is lifting his head to pierce you with the intensity of his gaze. The sharp sting of chastisement burns across your cheek, the memory of Hanamiya's hand a print darkening the line of your cheekbone to that of a flushing ache. His fingers trace the injury, the gesture born from mockery and devoid of sympathy. He lifts the weight of his body and smiles in a way that speaks a thousand words; a way that says _I'm doing this to you because I can._

You follow the glancing touch of his fingertips to the shape of your mouth. You keep your eyes open despite the natural reflex to hand yourself over to the comfort of darkness as Hanamiya shoves two fingers past the dry heat of your lips. The salt-warmth of his skin presses in against your tongue, scratchy and dry for lack of moisture, but it's not your thirst that sends a message to your brain. Instead, the physical need to oppose the action combined with your will to resist has you responding in the only way that you can due to your current position. You part your lips a fraction further, then you sink your teeth into the tender tissue invading your mouth and this time, you do close your eyes. You can taste the metallic tang of blood on your tongue, replacing the salt that clings to the ends of his fingers with something far more satisfactory.

“I should have known you'd be into foreplay,” Hanamiya says, the thrum of arrogance stringing his voice into that of a song. He scoffs as he tears his fingers out of your mouth, his eyebrows knitted together in spite of the dangerous smirk sketched into the dig of his mouth. “Just like you should have known that I love a good fight as much as I love pain.” Hanamiya licks the last dregs of blood away from his lips before lowering his head to the cloth concealing your chest. You don't feel the impact at first, the slick fingers creating a hold in your hair providing a momentary distraction for the pressure of Hanamiya's teeth closing on the tissue of your right breast. “I admire your dedication,” he says, his timbre vibrating against the pain that drags your blurred attention to the inky black of Hanamiya's bowed head as he shoves against you, pushing the air from your lungs as he slides up your body in an attempt to crush you beneath his weight. He closes a hand against your mouth, his fingers tightening to hold your jaw shut. “The thing is,” he says, taunting, “I'll have to rip out your teeth if you try that again.” His tone is condescending and he's almost purring with satisfaction as he rocks his hips forward, grinding against the space between your thighs. “I've waited too long for this to let you ruin my fun.”

You flail beneath him, thrashing your head from left to right when Hanamiya pins a hand to your chest as he works open the front of his jeans. You don't still; you don't give up fighting until Hanamiya's fingers close hard around your throat, cutting off your oxygen entirely. Everything goes hazy, white like the fog that stretches out beyond the boundaries of your front lawn. You blink once, the motion short in time but enough to obscure the shift of Hanamiya's hand. When the room finally comes back into view, Hanamiya's fingers are pushing against you, forcing pain up your spine as they enter your body without a modicum of hesitation. You can't find protest in the ache that settles in the low of your belly, can't form your voice into anything other than a tiny whimper that squeezes past the edges of your teeth, catching at the lower line of your mouth to silence the desire to beg for mercy.

You would rather choke on your own words than give into Hanamiya's sick fantasy willingly.

His fingers thrust in deeper, dragging hot and hard against raw nerve endings. Your spine tries to come away from the knotted angle of your hands, bound behind your back, but Hanamiya's weight grants no freedom. The fingers at your throat have gone slack, but the threat lies in wait as Hanamiya fucks into you with determined force. You feel the vibration of frustration building in the back of your throat, scratching as raw as the fingers stretching you open for the first time. You hold onto the pain as you gaze at the broken cobwebs strung across your ceiling.

It seems like hours have passed by the time Hanamiya slides his fingers free, but you know that it's been only minutes in reality, if even that. And you know what's coming next because Hanamiya is pushing your legs wider and fitting himself closer to the shaky heat of your body. You clench your jaw and inhale a sharp breath through your nose, bracing yourself for the presumed pain that's sure to follow.

Hanamiya's fingers are slick as they close on your hip and you don't have to look to know that he's painting your skin with your own blood. You exhale a staggering breath and try to push yourself away from Hanamiya's hands as he begins to pull you across the floor. The motion is unkind and leaves you slack and fatigued on the wooden boards. You think you hear Hanamiya laugh but the vocal strain of your own protest is filling your ears, your ability to hear gridlocked by a vicious outcry as the stretch of Hanamiya's cock sliding into you momentarily shatters your ability to focus. You stare at the ceiling, your determination to concentrate a small mercy as you suffer at the hand of the boy thrusting into you. The pain is nearly enough to override that focus as your body flushes hot with the ache of unfamiliar sensation, but you hold yourself in that focal point, your eyes burning with salt-damp tears as you stare unblinkingly at the ceiling. If it's sex that he wants, if it's pain or power or control, you will let him pretend at success, but you will not cry for him.

“You're not as capable as you thought you were, are you?” Hanamiya purrs, slamming his hips forward in a downward thrust that sends a spasm lancing through the racing thrum of your heart. “Even you, a _strong_ , intelligent, able-bodied _girl_ still runs the riskof being broken.” Hanamiya moves again, the angle of his hips coming in deeper as a thin sheen of blood collects on the head of his cock. “In the end, you're just trash like everyone else.” He rocks forward, his breath catching in his throat before the sound turns to laughter in his chest. He slides the hand at your throat lower, his fingers like ice and his hand just as cold as he presses against your collarbone for balance. “That being said, you'd still make a good pet, ____. You're a reasonable opponent. Even if it's only blood, you're still wet for me.”

“Go to hell,” you spit, twisting your hips in a struggle that you know you won't win, but being defiant is better than being submissive.

Hanamiya laughs again, low in his throat as he works a hand between your bodies and presses his fingers against your clit. You nearly choke on the surge of heat that rushes through you with all the force of a wildfire, branding your veins with the name of the boy over you. You're a nanosecond away from losing yourself but you refuse to reach for inattention because fantasy breeds like failure and delusion feels too much like defeat.

Hanamiya doesn't offer up any more of a response and you don't know if it's for lack of your own or the fact that he's dedicating every ounce of himself to motion, but somehow the silence feels just as lethal as the steady pulse of Hanamiya's tone. You can hear the slide of friction as he buries himself deeper between your legs on each thrust, his fingers working in tandem against your clit until the tension in your veins melts into heat and lightning crackles beneath your skin. You can feel pressure at the base of your spine and breathing is no longer reflexive, but instead, a compulsory obligation.

You pull your lower lip between your teeth and bite down until you can feel skin give way to the pressure. Your breathing is coming harder, catching in your throat as the capitulation of your body's demands become too strong to deny. You try not to blink, try to keep your thoughts from turning over to comfortable deception. You tell yourself that you're strong until you believe it, just like you always have—because you _are_ and there's nothing that the monster inside of you can do to take that away from you. You will not break.

But it's agony when pleasure surges through your veins, the ripples of orgasm tugging you up against Hanamiya's chest as he works you into hypersensitivity against the resistance of the floor. Hanamiya comes shortly after, breathless and shuddering as his cock pulses hot inside of you, slicking your inner walls with viscous ribbons of come. Still, you focus on the ache settling in the angle of your wrists, the knuckles digging into your spine, the chill of the floor against the backs of your thighs—nothing else matters. You won't let it.

And it gets worse somehow, even after Hanamiya withdraws his slowly softening member to leave blood along the inside of your thighs, because the warmth of _knowing_ is nothing compared to the familiar click of a cellphone camera. You know that you must look awful: battered and bruised and bloodied and... _broken_. You know because you _hurt_ and Hanamiya is staring down at you with an expression of satisfaction, his eyes like mirrors that reflect the frailty of your bound frame. He tucks himself back into his pants and undoes the belt binding your hands before wiping away the blood that's returned to his lip.

At last, he goes, leaving behind a vow that turns the heat in your blood to frost. He takes his arrogance with him but leaves a pretentious promise in his wake, one that exchanges the breath in your lungs with ice that scrapes against the back of your throat as you pull yourself upright. You inhale a sharp breath and cough as you press your shaky hands against the floor. You crawl to the nearest table and clutch its edge for support as you attempt to get back on your feet. It's a trying task but you manage it despite the bruises on your knees and the combination of blood and come collecting between your thighs.

You press your shoulder against the hallway wall and stare down the dark passage, expressionless. You can hear Hanamiya's voice in the back of your mind, swearing that you'll run to him when he calls. You exhale a sharp breath that echoes like disgust down the hall and will your limbs to support you as you take a step forward in the direction of the bathroom. Your fingers ghost the wall as you move with determination, your head reeling with the truth of what you've just been through.

But it's not defeat that burns like poison in your veins and it's not anguish that turns the heat on your tongue to bitterness. You are not broken and you are not weak. You will not give in and you _will_ get your revenge, even if it takes rebuilding the groundwork of your mind and the framework of your body.

When you're healed you will be stronger than before, your defenses will be invulnerable and your mental acuity bulletproof; but right now, you just need to focus on washing the stains of betrayal from your skin.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
